Art Ache (9 page)
Authors: Lucy Arthurs
Chapter 9
Early evening same day. The lounge room.
“As to marriage or celibacy, let a man take which course he will, he will be sure to repent.” Socrates.
I was the first one out of the rehearsal room. I longed for the comfort of home. I longed for Jack and the backyard and late afternoon sun on his hair and a warm bath, a book, bed for Jack and then bed for me.
The Rolling Stones were onto something when they told us you don’t always get what you want. I managed the backyard bit, the warm bath, the book and bed for Jack, but instead of the full Martha Stewart ending to my first day of rehearsal, I have my soon-to-be ex-husband turn up at my house to debrief about the day.
However, before he gets to the reprimand I feel sure is in the offing, first he chooses to obliterate my self-esteem just a little bit more.
BOOFHEAD
I’m knocking dates back, left, right and sideways at the moment.
He’s lying. I can see it in his eyes. But still I want to stab him in the chest. Where’s a metalbolic Freemason’s medieval replica sword when you need it?
BOOFHEAD:
I’m going through a bit of a purple patch.
I want to cut him into tiny pieces and feed him to the cat next door. The one that keeps pissing on our—no—
my
back deck. No, I’ll feed him to our goldfish instead—Frank Finatra. Yes, hilarious play on words, I’m aware. A light-hearted name for a young fish, bestowed upon him when I was a light-hearted young woman. Bugger that, I’m fond of Frank Finatra. He hasn’t done anything to deserve freshly hacked up Boofhead.
BOOFHEAD
People are throwing themselves at me. I’m mixing it up a bit.
ME
Spare me the gory details.
BOOFHEAD
Well, spare
me
the mental breakdowns at rehearsal.
And here comes the reprimand.
BOOFHEAD
It’s embarrassing.
ME
Embarrassing?
BOOFHEAD
Yes. We’re there to rehearse, not to watch people . . .
ME
What? Have feelings?
BOOFHEAD
Leave that to the actors.
I want to elaborate. I want to tell him we’re supposed to be there to delve into the richness of the human psyche. To explore human connection and emotion within the framework of a theatrical performance. I want to rave on about Dionysian rituals and artists being the healers within the community. I want to . . .
BOOFHEAD
You were crying, for God’s sake. Leave it out.
ME
A rehearsal room is the perfect place to express emotion.
How lame. I sound like some pious do-gooder who thinks she actually has some control over the universe. Why do I sound so lame? Because he’s right. Because it
was
embarrassing.
I
was embarrassing.
BOOFHEAD
It’s a comedy, for God’s sake. We’re doing a bloody sitcom about a bloody dysfunctional family, not bloody Chekhov.
ME
More’s the pity. At least then, I’d be able to throw myself under a train or something.
BOOFHEAD
If you can’t handle it, don’t come.
ME
I can handle it.
BOOFHEAD
Then keep it together. I don’t want anyone knowing we’ve broken up until next year’s season’s finalised. I don’t want it affecting professional opportunities. If people think we’ve broken up/
ME
/think?
BOOFHEAD
If people know we’ve broken up, they might think we can’t work together.
ME
We can’t.
BOOFHEAD
People think we can.
ME
You mean, you haven’t told anyone?
BOOFHEAD
A few people, but not the whole bloody rehearsal room. Have you?
ME
Of course.
BOOFHEAD
Who?
ME
My family.
BOOFHEAD
Yeah. And?
ME
No one else.
BOOFHEAD
Just keep it together at rehearsal, or don’t come at all.
Once again, I am reminded why not being married to this man is a marvellous idea.
The phone rings. A great excuse to extract myself from this conversation. I grab the phone before the answering machine clicks in.
ME
Hello.
MR.GORGEOUS
Hi.
It’s Mr. Gorgeous! He’s on the phone. My phone. He’s talking to me! I feel like a child. Like an adolescent. Like a love-struck teenager. Like Gidget or something. I should have toe separators on my feet, a cucumber-scented skin mask on my face and be wrapped in a towel while I paint my toenails coral pink. Mr. Gorgeous is talking to me, on my phone!
I freeze. I want to take the phone into another room but I feel self-conscious. Clandestine. Naughty. Ridiculously, I feel as though I’m being unfaithful. I press my ear to the phone to ensure Boofhead can’t hear who it is, although my beet-red face and girlish giggle have probably already given it away.
MR. GORGEOUS
I just thought I’d touch base with you. Today must have been tough.
ME
Um . . . yeah. It was, a bit.
MR. GORGEOUS
You did good.
A sexy actor who also happens to have written the occasional award-winning play is talking to me on my phone and using bad American grammar. I love him even more.
MR. GORGEOUS
It’s not easy. It’ll get harder, believe me. Wait ’til the actors start tearing it to shreds. But what you’ve got is good, so hang in there.
ME
Thanks.
MR. GORGEOUS
My pleasure. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, I’ve got a box of Kleenex.
Another Americanism.
ME
Sure.
MR. GORGEOUS
Don’t be afraid to use them. I can always buy another box.
ME
Thanks.
MR. GORGEOUS
No worries. Hey, see you tomorrow.
ME
See you then.
And I hang up, gobsmacked, glowing and oh so Gidget. I am Gidget. I’m adorable, sun-soaked, able to solve my problems with a witty voice-over narration and a cute look and I’ve just had a chat with Snoop Doggy. This is
way
cool!
BOOFHEAD
Who was that?
Bright red. Even redder than before. What is the red after beet red? Not sure, but I’m it.
ME
Just a friend.
BOOFHEAD
Sure.
Is that a miniscule flash of jealousy crossing his metrosexually cleansed face? Who cares? I’m not being unfaithful. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m simply talking to a man on the phone. A colleague. It’s not like I’m cheating on anyone, least of all my husband. I no longer have a husband. I have a soon-to-be-ex-husband, but not a husband I need to confess feelings of lust about another man to.
BOOFHEAD
I’ve gotta head off.
Boofhead crosses to door, but pauses before exiting.
BOOFHEAD
If you start seeing someone, make sure you keep him away from Jack.
I feel cheap. Dirty. A wayward single mother. Like I’m going to have an endless stream of men frequenting my bedroom. Maybe it really was a moment of jealousy that flickered across his face.
ME
Likewise.
Boofhead stomps out the front door. I stand in the kitchen, conflicted. On one hand, I’m floating on an air of salt spray and coconut after my conversation with Mr. Gorgeous, but on the other, I’m acutely aware of the complexities of having a relationship with a man in the future. Any man, not just Mr. Gorgeous. He’s no longer married, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s interested in me. Or available. All he did was phone me. But if someone were to come into my life . . .
Boofhead’s statement was out of line but then again, I feel the same way about him. If one of his purple patchers turned up for a playdate with Jack, I’d be furious. So, as much as I like to think life will go on as per normal, it won’t. It’s not that I’m afraid of being judged by other people if I, at some stage, choose to start dating someone. It’s that I’m afraid of being judged by myself. My mobile rings.
ME
Hi.
PATRICK
G’day. It’s Patrick. Hey . . . sorry it’s so late, but I just got the email. We need to do some more pick-ups for that voice-over.
Patrick. Ah, advertising agency guy. I have gorgeous men ringing me left, right, and centre tonight. Maybe I’m having my own purple patch moment.
ME
Sure.
PATRICK
Will you be okay fronting up to his studio again? He’s out on bail.
ME
Medieval sword guy?
PATRICK
Yeah. But don’t worry, I can protect you if it all goes pear-shaped.
He laughs. It’s a self-deprecating laugh. I like that.
ME
I hope I don’t have to take you up on that.
PATRICK
Me too. I’m no hero. So, tomorrow at ten?
ME
Sure. See you then.
I hang up and float off to bed on a wave of purple patch Gidget loveliness.
Chapter 10
Next Day. The next morning. The recording studio.
“Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.” Oscar Wilde.
The voice-over pick-up is great timing. It means I don’t need to be there for the beginning of the second day of rehearsal. It’s not compulsory for me to attend. Not at all, although I think it’s polite and supportive to turn up. I’ll go after the voice-over.
Patrick and I arrive at the same time and walk in together. Our sword-wielding, metabolic friend is at the front desk when we arrive. He’s contrite and subdued. He doesn’t mention the incident and neither do we.
The pick-ups are painless and quick. Lots of Oohing and Ahhing.
VOICE-OVER
Ahh . . . No. Not that. Uhh. Stop. Get away from me. Nooo.
Then a list of grunts.
VOICE-OVER
Grunting as if hit in stomach.
Grunting as if hit in chest.
Sound as if pushed off cliff.
Grunt as if you are kicking someone in the stomach.
Screaming as if being shot.
You get the idea.
Once we finish, our sword-wielding friend meets us in the foyer. He puts his arm on Patrick’s shoulder.
CARETAKER
Treat her well, mate. A good woman is hard to find.
Patrick and I share a quizzical look. Ahh . . . he thinks we’re a couple because we arrived together.
ME
Um . . .
CARETAKER
And buy her diamonds.
ME
We’re not together.
CARETAKER
Pity. You make a great couple.
We both laugh. Our sword-wielding friend is in a maudlin, sentimental headspace today.
ME
Hate to be rude, but I’ve got to go.
PATRICK
Me too.
ME
Late for rehearsal.
CARETAKER
Take good care of each other.
We share another look.
PATRICK
Will do.
ME
You too. Bye.
Patrick and I leave together, probably confusing our sword-wielding friend even further.
PATRICK
See you next time.
ME
See you then.
PATRICK
We should catch up some time. Maybe go out for a drink. Old mate might be onto something.
ME
Ha ha. Maybe he is.
I get in my car and head across town to the rehearsal, wondering if I’ve just been asked on a date.
Who knows?
But halfway there, I realise it’s the last place I want to be. I’d rather go home, clean my house, bake a cake, do a couple of loads of washing, and collect Jack from childcare nice and early.
So that’s exactly what I do. I dodge the second day of rehearsal. And then the third. And the fourth. I end up sitting the whole first week out, telling myself that I am terribly busy with other things but really, I just want to spend time with Jack, and I can’t bear being in the same space as Boofhead.
Now I’ve come to the start of the second week. During this week the director works with the actors to explore and reveal the play. It’s a time of exploration and discovery, exploring the characters, relationships, and the themes of the play. This kind of detailed work on the script can then inform decisions of physical relationships, use of props, exits and entrances. However, if there is no time or no understanding of the need for exploration, then this is curtailed and actors become puppets. Boofhead, with his tendency for EIN, has approached the process as an exploration, but it’s a regimented exploration. A regimented exploration of primarily his ideas, with the intention that the actors will come around to his way of thinking. I’m finding it excruciating. I want to heckle. I want to call out to the lead actress.
What the hell are you doing to my script? You’re turning it into a tragedy. It’s not a tragedy, love, it’s a bloody situation comedy! You know the type of thing—light and playful, not turgid and woeful.
Needless to say, I won’t. I haven’t succumbed to what I term Theatrical Tourette’s just yet. It’s a term I coined based on a phenomenon I’ve witnessed before. I dread developing it. The first time I witnessed Theatrical Tourette’s was at a small theatre ten years ago. The play, can’t remember what it was, was dreadful. There’d been an American acting tutor in town, offering woefully expensive masterclasses and obviously, the actors in the play had all attended because they were all doing some kind of Marlon Brando mumbling and lots of emoting. I guess it was better than Theatre of Shout, which is at the other end of the theatrical spectrum. Theatre of Shout is pretty self-explanatory. Mumble, mumble, mumble is annoying, but shout, shout, shout is excruciating.
So there I was, about ten years ago, sitting in the audience, enduring the mumble, mumble, mumble and distracting myself by thinking about the cinnamon toast I was going to make when I got home, when a much older woman who had worked for decades in local theatre, variously as a tutor, reviewer, and in admin, called out to the actors. This is an absolute no-no when you attend theatre. You never, unless instructed by the actors for the purposes of compulsory audience participation, call out. But this woman did. In a beautifully enunciated, rich, resonant voice she hollered, “Louder! I can’t hear you. Speak up for goodness sakes!”
I froze, my impending cinnamon toast forgotten. She had broken the theatrical fourth wall and totally destroyed the suspension of disbelief. It was then I coined the phrase ‘Theatrical Tourette’s.’ This woman had seen so much theatre over the years that the lines between acceptable and unacceptable behaviour had well and truly blurred. She’d forgotten it was completely unacceptable to shout out instructions to actors during a performance. A bit like nanna ripping off a fart at Christmas dinner. Yes, we all have the urge occasionally, but it’s socially unacceptable to give in to it.
The Theatrical Tourette’s moment stays with me as a cautionary tale. A warning, a brief look at what might lie ahead for me. I’ve given express instructions to my family members that if I ever start heckling at theatre events or display any symptoms of Theatrical Tourette’s they must keep me at home, well away from any theatres. They can even tie me up if need be. I haven’t gotten there yet, thankfully.
But I am here. Sitting in this draughty rehearsal room, listening to Sonya, a melodramatic actress with far too much cleavage busting out, squeezing every bit of pathos out of every single line of my play. And I’m compulsively clearing my throat. Each time she opens her mouth, I clear my throat. I don’t mean to, it’s just happening. A reflex action. My dad used to do it during school musical performances. You could always pick him out in the audience from the distinctive throat clearing noise. That was just a bad habit, usually signalling boredom. This is a manifestation of extreme distress. Maybe his was too, school musicals can be very distressing. But no, not on this occasion. This is just me, trying to gag myself, avoid Theatrical Tourette’s and press the fury and rage back down into the depths of my gut. This is me stopping myself from screaming, “Shut up! You’re appalling!”
RAMONA
Would you like a glass of water?
ME
Pardon?
RAMONA
You’re putting the actors off. Would you like a glass of water for your throat?
It’s Ramona, the stage manager. It’s her job to manage the rehearsal room. Boofhead is in attendance and the lighting designer has popped in to see a couple of scenes while he contemplates his design. They’re sitting at the production table, the table the crew and creatives sit at during the rehearsal. The actors are up on the floor, the rehearsal room floor, marked out with gaffer tape to denote walls, doors etc. There are rudimentary items of furniture to substitute for the real bits until they’re built, bought, or found. There are usually a couple of props tables too, one for each side of the stage.
ME
Sorry. No. I’m fine.
RAMONA
Then be quiet.
ME
Of course.
RAMONA
Or go outside.
Rude bitch. Bloody good stage manager, though. Man, can she run a rehearsal room. Runs it like a military exercise. Maybe she could line the cast up against the back wall and shoot them all. Inappropriate? Probably. It’s not their fault. But I’m feeling desperate. My play is beginning to look like badly written, melodramatic poop.
And then he rescues me—Mr. Gorgeous, that is. He’s been sitting in the back corner of the room. When the actors aren’t in a scene, they hang about or duck outside. Mr. Gorgeous has been hanging about.
MR. GORGEOUS
I think we’re missing something. Maybe we need to hear from the writer.
What a grand idea. Oh bugger, that’s me!
ME
Um . . . (throat clears) . . .
MR. GORGEOUS
What feel do you think the play needs?
ME
Feel? Oh . . . um . . . yes . . . feel . . . you’re all doing a great job, it’s just that . . .
Cough it up, Persephone.
ME
I wrote the play as a light situation comedy and it’s becoming . . .
BOOFHEAD
Get to the point.
ME
It’s too dark. It’s . . . laboured . . . it’s . . .
BOOFHEAD
We’re connecting with the truth of the piece. We’re attacking it.
ME
That’s the problem. It needs to be left to breathe.
MR. GORGEOUS
It needs a lighter touch.
ME
Yes. It needs a lighter touch. It needs room to . . .
MR. GORGEOUS
Be funny.
ME
Yes. It’s a comedy.
Awkward pause.
BOOFHEAD
Finished?
MR. GORGEOUS
I think that will be helpful. Persephone?
ME
Yes. Absolutely. Thanks. It needs to be lighter.
BOOFHEAD
We’ll keep it in mind.
At that point, I decide it’s probably best if I leave them to it for the afternoon and check in with them in the morning.
I grab my things and leave. As I’m putting my script in my bag I realise that part of what’s going on for me is that I’m having trouble coming to terms with the change in roles. Actors are part of the team, writers are the observers, the ones who sit back and record it all. When the actors are exploring and playing with the script, even if it’s a regimented rather than organic exploration, they don’t want the creator of the work looking over their shoulder. They need to be free to explore, play, talk about the script and their characters without the fear they’ll offend the playwright.
I opt to pick Jack up early from daycare and spend the afternoon lying on the grass in the backyard looking at the clouds.
JACK
Elephant! I see an elephant.
ME
Where?
JACK
There.
Jack points straight up.
ME
I see it. What about the boat?
JACK
Where?
ME
Next to the elephant.
We’re lying on the grass in the dappled shade. It’s warm but not hot, sunny but not too bright. I can smell the grass and feel it prickling my back as I lie here with gorgeous Jack, eating Weis bars and cloud spotting. I love Weis bars, a very moreish combination of real fruit ice-cream with a traditional cream strip. Irresistible.
JACK
Where’s Daddy?
Pause.
ME
At his house.
JACK
This is his house.
ME
Not anymore, sweetheart.
JACK
But why?
ME
Darling, that’s a big question.
JACK
Have you got a big answer?
ME
Um . . . I should but I don’t. Let me think . . .
JACK
Doesn’t Daddy like us?
ME
He loves you, darling.
JACK
Does he
like
me, but?
ME
Yes. Of course, yes!
I sit up then. This is too important to remain a horizontal conversation. We’ve shared the basics with Jack, but it’s time to find more words to explain this.
ME
Sweetheart. Daddy has decided he doesn’t like me anymore. He loves you and he always will. He likes you too. He’s just not sure about Mummy anymore. But what I want you to know is –
I take his two tiny hands in mine.
ME
There is nothing wrong with you. This is not your fault. You, my little friend, have done nothing wrong.
JACK
True?
ME
Yes. True.
JACK
Do you love me, Mummy?
ME
Absolutely.
JACK
How much?
ME
Million much.
JACK
True?